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POEMS. 



AMERICA, 



AN ODE: 



AND OTHER POEMS 



B T 



N/ W/COFFIN. 



- "Why wolt tliou letter me 



More of my tale than an ottier man. 
Sin tliat it is the beste rime I can ? 

CnADCER. 



BOSTON: 
PUBLISHED BY SAMUEL G. SIMPKINS 

M.D.CCC.XLIII. 




TS ) 

H- 



e 



3x7 



Entered, according to act of Congress, in the year 1843, 

By S. G. Simpkins, 

In tlic Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts 



I. R. BUTTS, PRINTER, 
SCHOOL STREET. 



In putting this little volume of poems into the hands of the public, it may 
not be impertinent for the author to say, by way of preface, that he has 
not been encouraged to brave the perilous sea of authorship, by the interested 
flatteries of any of his personal friends : to most of them his rhyming propensi- 
ties have been, but are now no longer, (very much to the grief of the world- 
wise among them, he doubts not,) as a sealed book. Neither has he been 
made the dupe of an over-estimate of their value and importance, for really he 
has the modesty to believe, that he might as well attempt to hang his hat 
upon one of Jupiter's satellites, as to reach that standard of excellence in 
the Divine Art, which he has erected in his own mind. The reader will now 
very naturally inquire, and perhaps with no little amazement. What could 
have induced him to launch upon a voyage, which should neither have 
favoring gales at starting, a comfortable outfit, or a port of destination. 
Suffice it then — that as " the wind bloweth where it listeth, and no man 
knoweth whence it cometh or whither it goeth," so have these fancies come 
to him (he knew not whence or wherefore) in green and waste places, with 
the first breath of morning, at noon-day and at midnight, and they are the 
promptings of moods, as incomprehensible to him as the spiritual life he 
lives. They are put forth without pretension and without a sanguine hope 
on his part, that they will win the ear, or succeed in making any impression 
upon the heart, of the reader. He may say briefly, that he conceived, 
wrote, and published them, without demanding of himself a reason, — and 
whether he sell them or not, is a problem, involving certain considerations 
highly interesting to his publisher, which he trusts time will solve satisfac- 
torily to his wishes. 



CONTENTS. 



America. An Ode, 3 

The Past, 17 

Evening in the Country, 22 

To Elizabeth, 26 

The Village Bell, 30 

To THE River Merrimack, 33 

Childhood, 36 

Musings, 38 

William and Ellen. A Ballad, 41 

The Dream Angel, 45 

On the Birth of an Infant, 49 

Bunker Hill. Sonnet, 53 

A Picture. Sonnet, 55 

On a Lady, 57 

Evening. Sonnet, 59 

Edward's Grave, Gl 

December • 63 

Virtue, 64 

Hymn for the Sabbath, 65 



Vlll CONTENTS 



The Pious Dead, 67 

Stanzas, 69 

The Inward Voice, 71 

Sir Robert's Trance, 74 

Autumn, 79 

Osceola, 82 

Lament op the Exile, 86 

Boat Song, - 88 

Song, 90 

An Evening Hymn, 92 

The Spanish Exile's Song, 94 

The Blighted Flower, 96 

An Epistle to , 100 

The Crusader, 107 

The Times, 109 

Song, 119 

The Dying Girl, ,,,,,,.. 121 



Go, little book, into the world, and say 

Thou comest from one, fearless in freedom's cause ; 

Who, bending- not to censure or applause, 
Did send thee hopefully upon thy way ; 
Say, that thou springest fresh from his warm heart, 

And art not tricked in flaunting rhythm, to please 

The leaden ear of idleness or ease, 
But wert designed to act a nobler part ; 
And if some kindly, sympathizing breast 

Finds aught in thee to cherish, or to love, 

Oh ! may'st thou by thy soothing presence prove 
To it a benison of joy and rest : 
So shalt thou win sweet solace and delight, 
For him, who sent thee on thine earnest flight. 



ODE TO AMERICA. 



AMERICA. 



AN ODE 



The eager hours and unreluctant years, 

As on a dawn-illumined mountain stood, 
Trampling to silence their loud hopes and fears ; 

Darkening each other with their multitude ; 
And cried aloud, Liberty! Indignation 
Answer'd Pity from her cave ; 
Death grew pale within the grave, 
And desolation howled to the destroyer, Save I 

Shellet. 
• 



Spirit, who watchest the slow march of time ! 
Along the courses of revolvmg years, 
Filled with the sweet harmonies of spheres 

That wind their circles round thy seat sub- 
lime. 



6 AMERICA. 

The glorious sun-illumined quire, 
Forever hymning in mid-space, 
With music, all unknown to mortal ears 

The lofty psalm, whose wild ecstatic fire, 
Old bards have caught, and greatly gifted 
seers, 
And in soft numbers of celestial grace, 
Struck from the chords of the resounding 
lyre. 
Spirit ! from whom all things have birth. 
Whether in air, or sea, or earth, 
Who, in thine undisputed sway 
From frozen north, to the remotest Ind, — 
Holdest the nations in thy careful hand, — 
Lord of the darkness and the day, 
Insensate matter, and eternal mind, — 
Divinest freedom's sighs, the theme demand, — 
And while my trembling muse essays to sing. 
Oh ! plume her spirit, with an angel's wing. 



AMERICA. 7 

II. 

And thou, Oh ! freedom, child of heaven, 
To whom the sacred fire was given. 
To warm, and bless the darkened soul of man, 
Whose light, through hidden realms of 

shade. 
Shot its bright radiance, and displayed 
The shining arts, and taught their wondrous 

plan ; 
Being best loved, whose worth no thought can 
span. 
The angels wept, when from the north, 
Blood-stained oj^pression drove thee forth. 
With banners torn, and visage pale and wan ; 
But thou, with hope yet unsubdued. 
Heavenward thine airy flight pursued, 
Still hovering o'er fair Albion's coast ; 
Where, on fields and mountains gory, 
Sank into the sleep of glory, 
The spirits of thy martyred host. 



8 AMERICA. 

III. 

How proudly gleamed thine eagle eye ! 
When in the purpling western sky, 
America's new star first dimly shone ; 
And stooping on suspended wing, 
Thou heard'st the faithful pilgrims sing 
Their hymns to liberty, the lost and won. 
Upon the Mayflower's narrow deck, 
Braving the fearful storm and wreck ; 
Then didst thou hang thy banner to her mast. 
And binding the wild tempest's fluttering zone. 
Bring them, my country ! to thy shores at 
last. 

IV. 

Two centuries have rolled their tides 
Into the dim eternal sea of time ; 

And still o'er thee a changeful spirit glides 
With wistful eye, and mighty thought sub- 
lime, 



AMERICA. 9 

Shaping new forms of what thou 'rt yet to be 

E'er fav'ring heaven shall set thy sparkling 
name 

Above all nations, in the sky of fame, 
The primal star of peace and liberty. 

By what blest enchantment art thou changed 
Exhaustless Nature from thine ancient glory ; 

No more to man, and human art estranged, 
Upon thy virgin fields, and mountains hoary. 

Where the rude savage in the winged chase, 
Tracked the wild deer through forests dark 
and lone. 

Or skimmed the ruthless oceans that embrace 
Thy fertile shores, with low perpetual moan, 

Where wigwams rose and smoke of council 
fires, 
From sheltering woods, and sloping valleys 
curled. 

Charmed by the music of celestial lyres, 
Springs into being a majestic world. 



10 AMERICA. 



V. 



As the orient orb of day, 
Rises from the bed of night, 
Showering beams of dazzling light. 

Round his high accustomed way. 
Thou, from deepest shades of gloom. 
In the darkly teeming womb. 

Of the all creative spirit, 
Springest into breathing life. 
Armed, and ready for the strife. 

Brooding night to disinherit 
In the terror of her reign ; 
While on every hill and plain. 

Bristling in thine azure skies, 

Tower, and wall of cities rise ; 
Navies, freighted with the ores 

Of utmost India, plough thy seas. 
Heaping all their golden stores 

In thy lap, and more than these ; 



AMERICA. il 

Learning, doomed no more to dwell. 
In monkish cowl, or cloistered cell, 

Seeks the open light she loves. 

And scatters joy where'er she moves j 
Graceful art with eye serene. 
Wanders o'er the smiling scene, 

Making all its beauties shine 

In the painter's glowing line, 
And her loftier presence known, 
In the sculptor's breathing stone ; 

Heaven-descended poesy, 

With wit and mirth, fair sisters three, 

Join soul-awakening harmony, 
To fill thy fragrant fields and groves ; 

While religion's softening ray, 

Like a bright star, along thy way 
In unclouded splendor moves ; 

Liberty through all thy sphere. 
Pours her genial atmosphere, 

And yet thou art not free. 



12 



AMERICA 



VI. 

From southern climes, upon the sultry air, 
Borne feebly, like an echo dim and faint, 
I hear the burden of thy sad complaint, 
I feel the sorrows thou art doomed to bear, 

Insulted freedom ! where th' accursed taint 
Of human bondage, eats into thy fame, 
A dark, and soul-destroying leprosy. 
Sweeping o'er all like a remorseless sea 
Its poisoned wave. I hear thy spotless name 
Than which no dearer in the shrine of love 
Makes its blest home, first on the infant's 

tongue, 
And by sweet bards and mighty minstrels 
sung, 
Uttered in fearful blasphemies that move 
High heaven to tears, and fright the listening 
stars. 
Oh ! hapless state. Oh ! sights and sounds 
unholy, 



AMERICA. 13 

Oh ! bleeding wounds, and iron-branded scars, 

Pity, in strains of sweetest melancholy, 
Pours her sad spirit into mournful song, 

And pleads in accents wild, avenge, and 

save ! 
Unloose the cords that bind the groaning 
slave, 
And look no more upon th' oppressor's wrong. 

VII. 

My country, through thy solemn woods and 
vales, 
I seem to hear the echo of my song 
Mingling with the low music that prevails 

At twilight's close, reverberated long 
O'er the wide scene. Nature herself bewails 
Thy blighted honor, and mild freedom's 
wrong. 
Spirits of those who fought at Lexington 



14 AMERICA. 

And Bunker's Hill, speak from your gory 
graves ! 
Your rallying flag, no longer in the sun 

Its starry folds in glorious triumph waves, 
O'er the fair soil by noble valor won, 

Your sons have made to drink the sweat of 
slaves ; 
While ringing lash, with answering clank of 

chains 
And prison bars, resound along the plains — 
Oh ! God, with whom the fate 
Of nations rests, protect our state. 
And wipe from her broad shield its guilty 
stains. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



THE PAST 



I CANNOT look into the past, 

Without a tearful eye ; 
Old memories so thick and fast, 
Throng in its dreamy cavern vast. 

In shapes that cannot die ; 



Spirits, that in my presence stand, 

Full clothed, and living yet, 
I caiinot take them by the hand, 
That well-beloved and shadowy band, 
Whose earthly suns have set. 



18 THE PAST. 

But in their soul-illumined eyes. 

The life of other days 
I read with sweetly sad surprise 
The life that won so many ties, 
By all its pleasant ways. 



And mingling with the notes of birds, 

That sang in olden time, 
I hear the lowing of the herds. 
Soft voices and familiar words, 

The tremulous low chime. 



Then o'er the solemn churchyard green, 

I tread with holy joy ; 
Bright faces fill the moving scene, 
I wonder not what I have been, 

I feel myself a boy. 



THE PAST. 19 

The sunlight falls, as erst it fell, 

Across the shining stones ; 
And far o'er wood, and brook, and dell. 
The evening wind, with lengthened swell, 

Mutters in fitful tones. 



An aged oak its cooling shade 

Flings o'er a grassy seat ; 
And winding slow its silver braid, 
A streamlet babbles through the glade 

With pleasant voice, and sweet. 



Within this bower at eventide, 
Soon as the shadows fell, 

I wooed the muses to my side ; 

And first my trembling fingers tried. 
The music of my shell. 



20 THEPAST. 

Before my weak, bewildered eye, 

A spirit went and came ; 
Its white wings flashed along the sky. 
And clear, and loud, it blew on high. 

The trumpet note of fame. 



Then in the chamber of my soul 

A purer passion glowed, 
And swift through every sense it stole, 
I saw afar the shining goal, 

I trod the flowery road. 



And in each star, that gemmed the night, 

In characters sublime, 
Methought I traced old bards of might, 
Those glorious bright suns, whose light 

Streams down the waste of time. 



THE PAST 



21 



What if my spirit burned to wear, 

The poet's leafy crown ; 
Nursing high thoughts, I did not care 
To check, — sweet hopes that bade me share 

Their glory and renown. 



These were but dreams of youthful days ; 

Alas ! how poor and vain. 
And as I turn my eager gaze 
Backward through well remembered ways, 

I feel both joy and pain. 



23 



EVENING IN THE COUNTRY. 



Now slowly sinks the red round sun, 
Adown the gold and purple west ; 

For us her daily duties done 

Day yields to night, and toil to rest. 



Now homeward wend the grazing herd 
Slow answering to the shrilly horn, 

The lazy cow-boy's voice is heard. 
Among the woodland vales forlorn. 



EVENING IN THE COUNTRY. 23 

Oft have I watched, when evennig bells 
Have rung their earliest twilight chime, 

High perched among the upland dells, 
At twilight's sweet and witching time ; 

The village cotters homeward tread. 
Tired with the labors of the day ; 

While circling round the blithe laugh sped. 
To wile the long and weary way. 

Oft have I watched, and often sighed 
A wish their humble lot were mine. 

Retired from worldy pomp and pride. 
The gloss of wealth, ambition's shrine. 

No more should pleasure's syren art. 
In slippery mazes lead my feet. 

Content to bear an honest part. 
And find a joy in all I meet. 



24 EVENING IN THE COUNTRY. 

An even road, my course of life 

Should thread a smiling vale of flowers, 

Perchance a gentle-hearted wife. 

To warm, and cheer its sinless hours. 

Thus would I journey smoothly on, 
Apart from all the worldly woes, 

That cast their darkling shades upon 
Life's current as it onward flows. 

The night shuts in : I must away. 
Deep silence fills the stirless air ; 

The father kneels him down to pray. 
And I an idler should be there. 

The room is still, the shutters closed ; 

Young faces throng around the board, 
With chastened eyes, and hands reposed. 

Attentive listening to the Word. 



EVENING IN THE COUNTRY. 25 

Yon meek-eyed girl's soft ringing voice 
With clear and simple cadence reads ; 

In one full song their hearts rejoice, 
The father with his Father pleads. 

The prayer is done ; now gentle sleep 
Wraps mild content and innocence ; 

An angel band their vigils keep 
To warn all rude disturbers hence. 

Oft have I watched, and often sighed 
A wish, their humble lot was mine ; 

And yet, whate'er of ill betide, 
I will no more my lot repine. 

For God is wise, as he is kind ; 

In all this varied world we see 
The streams of joy and grief combined, 

And tending to a distant sea. 



26 



TO ELIZABETH 



duEENLY proud Elizabeth, 
Maiden tall, and slim, and fair. 
With blue eyes, and golden hair, 

May a poet's winged breath. 
Though in melody of words 
Sweet as notes of singing birds, 

Or soft wind that whispereth 
iEol to its warm caress. 
Speak thy shining loveliness, 



TO ELIZABETH. 27 

Or those modest virtues, rare, 
Priceless, and beyond compare, 
Mirrored in that font of grace, 
Sparkhng in thine angel face ? 

Nature, mother of all forms 
The red tide of being warms, 
From her murmuring groves and rills. 
Bright sea-depths, and breezy hills, 
In mid-summer's glowing prime. 
Youth of pomegranate and lime. 
With an eagle's matchless pinion, 
Soared to heaven's bright dominion ; 
There, oh ! fair, sweet nature found thee, 
There, oh ! fair, sweet nature bound thee, 
Thee, pure wandering bird of heaven. 
And mingled thee with mortal leaven. 

Now in robes of beauty drest, 
And by all the world carest, 



28 TO ELIZABETH. 

Proud, in woman's stateliness, 
Wealth of love, and power to bless, 
Walk'st thou in sweet-scented bowers, 
O'er green lawns, and beds of flowers, 
With a never-ending song, 
As thou journeyest along 
To the meadows and the trees, 
And to every wandering breeze. 
So thy life serenely flows. 
Like a musical old rhyme. 
Chanted in melodious chime. 
Smoothly, to its dying close. 
Full of dutiful desires, 
And a faith, whose wing aspires 
To the lofty seat of Jove ; 
Full of charity and love, 
And all deeds that men approve ; 
Deeds that bring from heaven down. 
The glory of that thorny crown, 
Which his living temples wore. 



TO ELIZABETH. 29 

Who our sins and sorrows bore ; 
Few may feel, as thou hast felt, 

For the pains of grief and care ; 
Few may kneel, as thou hast knelt, 

In the earnestness of prayer ; 
Where thine every pious breath, 
Drew the poisoned air of death. 
Sweet suggestive of pure thought, 

Maiden, in thyself as pure ; 
If the lesson thou hast taught 

By thy life, with me endure, 
Then peace, such as was always thine, 
And joy, and hope, shall still be mine. 



3» 



30 



THE VILLAGE BELL 



Now soundeth aloud that deep-toned bell ; 

Ah ! could it reveal the days of old, 
Full many a tale its tongue could tell, 

As many a knell its tongue hath tolled ; 
It heavily swings on yonder steep, 

For an hundred years it there hath swung, 
And far o'er the hills the echoes creep. 

Whenever its thrilling tones are rung. 



THE VILLAGE BELL. 31 

Oh ! . merrily oft it fills the air, 

In the golden hours of summer's prime ; 
When gathered beneath, the young and fair, 

With light feet dance to its mellow chime ; 
And heavily oft its solemn tone, 

Comes to the lonely mourner's ear, — 
For its music speaks of days that are gone. 

And of hallowed forms that are not here. 



Thou heedest not the lapse of time, 

For what to thee are the rolling years. 
The young man in his lusty prime. 

The old man in his dotage tears ? 
And yet methinks the rust of age. 

Hath deepened thy trembling cadence mild. 
For now, though thy tones my soul engage, 

They were merrier far when I was a child. 



82 THE VILLAGE BELL. 

Those gladsome days, when I was a child, 

In freshest bloom I see them now. 
The red rosy face of laughter wild, 

Love's ravishing eye, joy's careless brow ; 
Within this shadowy fomit below. 

Where all the scenes of memory pass, 
Those days arise, in the sunlight glow 

Of summer, like forms in a magic glass. 



Oh ! strike yet again, thou ancient bell ! 

Though thy tongue its tale may ne'er 
unfold ; 
Thy deep mellow tones, I love them well, 

For they breathe of the palmy days of old. 
The days of old, and our village sires. 

Whose bones beneath thy tower repose ,* 
How sweet is the charm, as day retires. 

Over their graves thy loud voice throws ! 



33 



TO THE RIVER MERRIMACK. 



Flow on broad river to the sea : 
As thou hast flowed, since the bright circling 
spheres, 
To their glad company 
Welcomed the young earth with its golden 
years. 



34 TO THE RIVER MERRIMACK. 

Then spring first decked thy bending 
shores, 
And summer all unconscious filled the air ; 

Then autumn's plenteous stores, 
Ungarnered, owned no mortal's jealous care. 

Upon thy banks the dance and change. 
Of laughing seasons, sped unheeded by ; 

Untasked, through all thy range. 
Thou rolled'st on in silent majesty. 

Yet though thou leddest to the sea, 
Thy torrent course, unblest by man's abode ; 

These lands, and waters free, 
Gave back the features of a smiling God. 

Close by thy side my fathers sleep, 
Honored, throughout a long ancestral line ; 

Since driven to the deep. 
The deep gave them to thee, and freedom's 
shrine. * 



TO THE RIVER MERRIMACK. 35 

Here didst thou bless them with thy song 
Ever and ceaseless, singing in the wild ; 

Here, these broad fields among, 
They toiled 'mid dangers, till all nature 
- smiled. 

Flow on broad river to the sea, 
As thou shalt flow, while time prolongs its 
course. 

When I, who sing of thee. 
Have traced my being to its highest source. 



36 



CHILDHOOD. 



Oh ! give me childhood's roseate hours, 
When, bathed in summer's golden light, 

The world, like Eden's vale of flowers. 
First beams upon its ravished sight. 

Oh ! give me childhood's pleasant days. 
Of laughing merriment and glee ; 

Before its springing bud decays. 

Or it has dared life's treacherous sea. 



CHILDHOOD. 37 

Oh ! give me childhood's sinless years, 
Its warm and wildly beating heart, — 

Its summer smiles, and generous tears, — 
The joy its brightening hopes impart. 

Oh ! give me childhood's home and hearth, 
The blazing fire and chimney-seat, 

Where loudly rang its voice of mirth, 
And lightly fell its bounding feet. 

Oh ! give me back that joyous time, 
My childhood's brightly flowing years ; 

And I will give my manhood's prime 
With all its joys, and hopes and fears, 

Its mind and faculties mature, — 
Its learned gifts and nobler sense ; 

Oh ! give me back that season pure, 
My childhood's hope and innocence. 

4 



38 



MUSINGS 



Upon thy rugged, and storm-beaten shore, Na- 
hant. 
Outstretching far into the moonlit sea, — 
Now evening winds, in fitful pauses, chant. 
In the rapt ear their slumberous harmony. 
And the deep murmur of the waves, 
Echoing through thy charmed caves, 
Fills the soft air, with music sad and low 

As that of spirit voices singing 
In the sparkling depths below : 

Alone, 'twixt sky and ocean swinging 



MUSINGS. 39 

I sitj while showers of silver dew, 

Profusely rain from thy celestial wings, 
Pale bride of night, who leadest through 
heaven's blue, 
Thy virgin train of stars, where darkness 
flings 
Its deepest shadows round the sloping west. 



With low interminable roar, 

The ocean, like a full heart, heaves, 
And breaks upon the flinty shore ; 

And ever a new requiem weaves. 



Within yon darkly-brooding cloud. 
Aloft, the rushing sea-bird screams, 

Rending the calm night's misty shroud,- 
How like a human voice it seems ! 



40 MUSINGS. 

The low winds from the pleasant land, 
Breathing of fragrant fields and flowers, 

Whisper, in measures sweet and bland, 
Their memories of happy hours. 

What mingled harmonies delight thine ear, 
Oh ! Night, that bendest from thy starry sphere. 
Low down to earth, and watchest listfully 
To catch the solemn music of the sea, 
The blooming land, and the swift clouds that 

flee, 
With banners streaming o'er thy placid face, 
Borne on the summer winds, in sportive 

chase, — 
And, when day sinks behind the western wall. 
That comest softly at these voices' call. 
And here, unveiling all thy glowing charms, 
Holdest the wide scene in thy circling arms. 



41 



WILLIAM AND ELLEN 



BALLAD 



Oh ! wilt thou, Ellen, wed with me ? 

Thus William to the maiden sighed ; 
And I will be thine own good man, 

And thou shalt be my bride. 

Though gold and silver I have none, 
Deep in my heart a treasure lies ; — 

And thou, sweet Ellen, thou alone, 
Hast won the precious prize. 

4* 



42 WILLIAM AND ELLEN. 

Thy love, my never-failing joy, — 
I would not care for aught beside ; — 

And what were all the world to me. 
If thou wert not my bride. 

My cottage stands on yonder green, — 
A little cot, close by the side 

Of a bright river, and between 
Two tall oaks branching wide. 

There I will dress my garden wild, 
And deck my long-neglected bowers ; 

And thou, the brightest gem of all 
Among my garden flowers, 

If thou wilt deign to wed with me, 
Shalt be my dearest hope and pride ; - 

And I will be thine own good man, 
And thou wilt be my bride. 



WILLIAIM AND ELLEN. 43 

A tear stood in her burning eye, 

While thus the gentle maid replied ; 

Though I do love thee, William, dear, 
I cannot be thy bride. 

For where would be my mother old ? 

I could not for her wants provide ; 
And who would be her guide and stay, 

If I should be thy bride ? 

Too dear to me my mother's cot, 

Her ever fond, though fading eye ; — 

That mother, I may ne'er forget, 
Or leave alone to die. 

Oh ! say not so, my Ellen dear. 
For I Avill bring thy mother gray; 

And she shall dwell in our own cot, 
To bless thee many a day. 



44 W I L L I i\. M AND E L L E xN- . 

Then, William, I will wed with thee ; 

The maiden hung her head, and sighed 
And thou shaJt be my dear good man, 

And I will be thy bride. 



45 



THE DREAM ANGEL. 



Form etherial, soft and fair, 
Dwelling in the viewless air, 
None may call thee by thy name, 
Mortal sign thou canst not claim ; 
For thou art not known to fame, 
Nor to sensual things of earth, 
Nor to gross material birth ; 
But to me thou hast a shape. 
From which I may ne'er escape, 



46 THE DREAM ANGEL. 

Dimly seen, and shadoAvy, 
Floating in my mental eye, 
With a never-ceasing beauty. 
Blending love, and hope, and duty. 



When the twilight gloam is nearing, 
And the last faint day-beam shines, 

Dreaming in my leafy bower, 

Pleased, I wait the favored hour 
Of thy sweet and loved appearing ; 
Then I roam where Fancy leads. 

Ever following in thy train, 
Now o'er green and flowery meads, 

Hoary hill, and verdant plain, 
Through dim aisles of shadowy pines, 
Whose high tops the warm winds kiss, 
Into whispery sounds of bliss. 
Spirit-fed with charmed words, 
And the melody of birds. 



THE DREAM ANGEL. 47 

Form etherial, soft and fair, 

Did'st thou leave thy native sphere 

In the glowing fields above, 

Touched with sympathy and love, 
For this wayward, mortal state, 

Mindful of that distant time, 

Ere thy spirit soared sublime. 
And trembling, knocked at heaven's gate ; — 

When, through changeful night and day. 
Thou did'st seek thine erring way, 
Whelmed in doubts, and hopes, and fears, 
Less often knowing smiles than tears ? 
If such holy feeling bring 
Down to earth thine angel wing, 
With a glory so intense, 
To the spiritual sense, 
Then, my soul, no longer soil 
Thy bright robes, in dust and toil ; — 
Pleasure and Ambition spurn. 
To thy guardian spirit turn, 



48 THE DREAM ANGEL. 

She shall lead thee all thy days, 
Through fair scenes and pleasant ways, 
Free from mortal care, and strife, 
To the shining goal of life, 
Floating ever in thine eye. 
With a never-ceasing beauty. 
Blending love, and hope, and duty. 



^ 



49 



ON THE BIRTH OE AN INEANT. 



A LITTLE babe is let into the world, 
Out of the deep and kindly heart of God, 
Whose every pulse's high, mysterious beat, 
Warms into life some happy form of being. 
Thus art thou come, in pleasant month of May, 
Sweet bud of beauty, pure as nature's self, 
In her blest time, when in soft showers 

dissolved 
Her fields, and vineyards, and far-stretching 

plains 



M: 



50 THE BIRTH OF AN INFANT. 

Put on their flowing drapery of green. 

And fill with odours the mild breath of spring. 

Bright natal day, for one so fair as thou ; — 
The smiling skies, tinged with the setting 

sun's 
Celestial hues, seemed bending down to earth 
To fold the spring-child in their fond embrace, 
With the same feeling of thy mother's joy, 
When from her body, a man-child was born, — 
And thou, the first time, on her beating breast 
Drew the sweet breath of an outworld repose ; 
The small birds in the budding greenwoods 

sang. 
And silver-voiced streams, in their fair course 
Murmured sweet carols to the infant spring. 

The self-same breath, that poured into thy soul 
The subtle essence of immortal life. 
Tempered the rude winds to its feeble germ, 



THE BIRTH OF AN INFANT. 51 

And bade all spirits minister to it, 
Into the earth a genial heat infused, 
Making its gloomy face to smile again 
With renovated being, and the woods, 
So long condemned to barren nakedness. 
Once more to wear their livelier suits, and hide 
Beneath their shades the roaming flocks and 

herds ; 
Unbound the streams, to win their limpid 

way 
Through vales and meadows with fresh ver- 
dure clad. 
Rejoicing in new birth, and showered on all, 
In quickening dews, on atmosphere of love. 

With opening flowers shall thy young life 

1 expand ; 

Each day shall mark some brighter beam of 

thought, 
Disclosed to heaven and us in thy sweet face ; 



52 THE BIRTH OF AN INFANT. 

So shall the spring-child wander by thy side, 
New charms unfolding, as she moves along. 
And she shall lead thee gently by the hand, 
Through all the changes of the fruitful year. 
Oh ! may thy life, like hers, be fair and true. 
Its fruits, like hers, with radiant glory crowned. 



53 



BUNKER HILL 



SONNET 



I STAND alone upon the field of fame, 

Where once, in proud array, my fathers 

stood : 
Beneath me sleeps pale Mystic's glassy 
flood, 
Above me watch the unwearied stars, the 

same 

5* 



54 B U N K E R H I L L . 

As when oppression with her armies came, 
Death's iron allies in her vengeful hand, 
Belching deep thunders ; while her burning 
brand 

Lit up thy summit in the cannon's flame ; 

Mother of hills, mild freedom's hallowed fane, 
Long shalt thou live, the matchless theme 

of story. 
The field of battle, and the field of glory. 

Upon thy soil, where patriot heroes fought, 

I love to muse in retrospective thought. 



55 



A PICTUEE 



SONNET 



'T IS eventime ; lo ! where yon sun declines, 
Its last beams streaming over hill and vale. 

From the deep shade of yonder breezy pines, 
A lowly cot peeps through its leafy veil ; 

The woodbine clustereth on its snow-white 
wall ; 
In greenest verdure, the wild ivy clings 
About the portico, then upward flings 

Its wreathing arms, around the chimney tall ,• 



5G APICTURE. 

See where the lambs sport on the sloping lea, 
Now bathing in the streamlet running by, 

Or coursing the cool glades with silent glee. 
While on the green the lazy shepherds lie. 

Gladdening the moments, as they speed along, 

With some wild story, or a sylvan song. 



57 



ON A LADY. 



What though her virtues, all unknown to 

fame, 
No sculptor's art in classic lines proclaim. 
Still may affection's humble muse commend 
The zealous Christian, and the faithful friend ; 
With feelings warm, benevolence sincere, 
A generous pity for affliction's tear, 
The even tenor of a blameless life. 
Unstained by sin, secure from worldly strife. 



58 ON A LADY. 

What though her course, in paths obscurely 

traced, 
No fortune gilded and no honors graced, 
Her worth its perfect recompense has found, 
In brighter fields, beyond life's narrow bound ; 
Above her grave, though nameless and alone, 
Her virtues rise, a monument of stone. 



59 



EVENING, 



SONNET. 



Now the hushed wind of summer evening 
pours 
Its silvery whisper on my listening ear, 
Lingering among these broad old trees that 
rear 
Their shadowy tops along the bending shores. 



60 EVENING. 

Bright river, where thy glowing volume roars, 
Save whose wild tones of laughter, and 

delight, 
No other sounds disturb the silent night ; 
But hark ! I catch the sound of dipping oars, 
And now sweet music cleaves the dewy air, 
From the deep valley comes the swelling 
tone, 
The lute's mild breath the willing breezes 
bear. 
And to mine ear the boatman's song is 
blown ; 
Soothing my spirit in its mood of care. 

And bringing peace, where its light wing 
had flown. 



61 



EDWARD'S GRAVE 



Let no proud monument arise, 
To point me where my Edward lies ; 
But may some humble yew tree bend 
Its shadows o'er my sleeping friend, 
Distilling there, a pleasing sadness ; 
And may his turf be green, and fair, 
And vocal the surrounding air, 
With notes of birds, and sounds of glad- 
ness ; 

6 



62 Edward's grave. 

A simple stone shall bear his name, 
In graceful characters imprest, 
How few his years, and yet how blest, 

Without a word, or deed to blame ; 

So shall the rest, his ashes find, 
Suit well the gentle temper of his mind. 



63 



DECEMBEK. 



Merriest month of all the year, 
Month of Christmas thou art here ; 
With clear breath and sparkling brow, 
In thy pleasant robe of snow, 
Whit'ning every vale and mountain, 
Sealing every liquid fountain ; 
Wind of winter, though thou blowest, 
To the highest, and the lowest, — 
Merry month, thy face is fair, — 
Full of joy, and free of care. 



64 



VIRTUE. 



The fame of modest virtue lives 
When its frail vestments die ; 

By all revered, it still survives, 
When kings forgotten lie. 

Beside its glorious renown. 

What were a monarch's jewelled crown, — 
What were its honors high ; 

Above them all, through clouds and fears 

It shines, the beacon-light of years. 



05 



HYMN FOR THE SABBATH. 



Father ! now we bow before thee, 
Where thy holy altars are ; 

Let our swelling hearts adore thee, 
Grateful, for thy ceaseless care : 

Father, hear us, though unworthy, 
Hear, O ! hear, our humble prayer. 



66 HYMN FOR THE SABBATH. 

May the soft, the pure emotion, 
Kindled in each beating breast, 

Warm our spirit's cold devotion, 
Raise our souls by sin opprest ; 

Father, stay the world's commotion, 
Smile upon this day of rest. 

Now the organ's notes are swelling. 
Mingling with our grateful song ; 

Every gloomy doubt dispelling, — 
Let each heart the strains prolong ; 

Father, make thy constant dwelling 
In our heart, upon our tongue. 

Here, may every heart confessing 
All its weight of grief and care. 

Make this day of thine a blessing, 
Sanctify this hour of prayer ; 

Father, vain were our addressing 
If thou shouldst not meet us here. 



67 



THE PIOUS DEAD, 



How sweet the slumber of the dead ; 
How cahn their rest, how soft their bed, 
Who fall asleep in Jesus' arms. 
And murmur not at death's alarms : — 
Their souls embalmed are upward borne. 
For them, it \vere but sin to mourn. 



68 THE PIOUS DEAD. 

Their bodies pillowed in the dust, 
Unmarked by honor's storied bust. 
Shall gather to their couch of sleep, 
Above their hallowed forms to weep 
The few that loved them, while they trod, 
The footstool of their father God. 

Though fame refuse their names to sing. 
Nor there her crowning laurels bring, 
Yet love, with pious hand shall twine 
Of freshest flowers, a wreath divine, 
To bloom above the sacred spot. 
Still cherished, though by fame forgot. 



69 



STANZAS 



Oh ! come not in my sacred hours, 
Vain dreams of melody and mirth, 

Luring my thoughts to love's green bowers, 
And the fond images of earth. 

I spurn ye hence ; and on the wing 
Of Fancy, would my spirit soar 

To the blue heaven where purely spring 
Bright visions of an Eden shore. 



70 STANZAS. 

There lives not in this world of ours, 
That which the soul may call its own ; 

To-day, our path among the flowers 

Love cheers, with melting eye and tone ; 

To-morrow comes the wintry blast, 

And the green hopes of youth are flown ; 

Those we have loved sleep in the past, 
And we are left to sigh alone. 

Then come not in my sacred hours. 
And leave my chastened heart awhile ; 

Now the deep shade of twilight lowers, 
And the glad stars above me smile. 

The untainted thought shall wander free, 
To brighter lands, where, ever green. 

Its palmy groves long summers see, 
And winter's cold hath never been. 



71 



THE INWARD VOICE. 



I HEAR a voice within my soul, 

That voice to me is speaking ; 
Beware ! Beware ! life's treacherous shoal, 
It lies between thee and the goal. 

The pleasant goal thou 'rt seeking ; 
I hear the murmur of the waves, 



72 THE INWARD VOICE. 

That break upon its sands ; 
I see a thousand yawning graves, 
From each, a voice commands ; 
Beware ! Beware ! 
O ! do not dare 
Life's dark, and treacherous sands. 



Thy spirit in the sunny land 

Of hope, now careless straying, 
Bright pleasures lead thee by the hand. 
Through balmy shades, by zephyrs fanned, 

Among the valleys playing ; 
Thou hear'st the rushing of the streams. 

Along the verdant plains. 
Thou see'st the gold and silver beams. 

Dance o'er the ripened grains. 
And to thine ear. 
The wind-notes bear 

Their sadly pleasing strains. 



THE INWARD VOICE. 73 

Now in thine hour of trusting faith, 

Strong, questionless, and pure, 
Beware ! the rushing tempest's scath, 
Its voice, in muttering thunder saith, 

Beware ! the dazzUng hue ; 
It shines beyond the shifting sands. 

That break the stormy sea ; 
And in its blaze, are ghastly hands. 

Outstretching now for thee ,• 
Oh ! lift thine arm. 
Dissolve the charm, 

And set thy spirit free ! 



74 



SIR ROBERT'S TRANCE, 



Sir Robert was a gallant Knight, 
As e'er bestrode a gallant steed ; 

As ever buckled armor bright, 

As ever mingled in the fight, 

Or brake a good lance at his need. 

Sir Robert had a Knightly trance, 

'T was in the battle's deadliest heat ; 
When heedless of the foes advance. 
Sir Robert leaned upon his lance, 
And slumbered in his saddle seat. 



SIR Robert's trance. 75 

Before him rose in wild array 

A boding vision of the past, 
The bloody conflict of that day, — 
The nameless Knight, in armor grey, — 

The deep and solemn bugle blast. 



The spectre of his castle hall. 

The mail-clad vision of his sleep ; 
The Saxon's blood upon the wall, 
A maiden's hearse, and sable pall, 
The prisoner of his dungeon keep. 



Now stretching far as eye could reach. 

Were lands arrayed in comely green ; 
And there, a shelving sandy beach. 
Beyond, the sea, and here a breach, 
A lofty castle tower between. 



76 SIR Robert's trance. 

From out those castle walls, for aye 
The warder blows a single blast ; 
The drawbridge falls, the Knight in grey, 
Well mounted on a steed of bay, 
Spurs over gallantly and fast. 



Sir Robert stirs him in his trance, 

Ho ! who hath ope'd my castle keep ; 
He calls ; when, lo ! in quick advance, 
The Knight in grey, with couched lance, 
Comes sweeping down the rocky steep. 



Now by 'r lady, false Sir Knight, 
I hold that we are fairly met ,• 
You deemed me dead, but by the light 
Of gentle Saxon eyes, the might 
Of my brave father's lance, this night 
The greensward earth thy blood shall 
wet. 



SIR Robert's trance. 77 

Thou holds't my castle, and my lands. 
The boon my fathers proudly won ; 

A maiden's blood is on thy hand ; 

My father died by thy command, 
He died, but left a Saxon son. 



The grey Knight spoke, then forth his 
lance 

High poised in air, with deadly aim ; 
Back reined Sir Robert, for his trance 
Was broke, and he must break a lance, 

Or foully stain a gallant name. 



Ha ! now the rattling clang of steel, 
The ringing sound of shivering lance, — 

Sir Robert falls, a mighty deal 

Of the battle axe's deadly heel. 

Has dimmed the Norman's eagle glance. 



78 SIR Robert's trance. 

I know thee now, Sir Blond the Brave ; 

Thus faint with blood, Sir Robert cries, 
I doomed thy Sire an early grave, 
Thy Saxon brother was my slave. 

Fair Margaret, alas ! and dies. 



79 



AUTUMN 



I SEE thee in the withering tree, 

Whose yellow leaves lie strewed beneath ; 
And hark ! low voices seem to be 

Mingling sad music with thy breath. 
Thy chilling winds around me steal, 

And o'er the hills in silence creep, 
Making the woodlands toss and reel, 

And the free waters gush and leap. 



80 AUTUMN. 

I love thee, Autumn, for the sad 

And pensive gloom that shadows thee ; 
Though in the storm and whirlwind clad, 

Thou bringest pleasant thoughts to me. 
I think on days of pleasure past, 

When love the blissful moments sped, 
Of joys too sweet, too frail to last, 

And hopes that moulder with the dead. 



The green fields and the verdant grove, 

The fruits and flowers that gaily bloom, 
Like all the good in life, we love. 

Regretted, find an early tomb. — 
So the false hopes that cheat the soul, 

The world's unmeaning smile and tear, 
The passions' proud and fierce control, 

Disdain's cold breath, and slanders' ear 



AUTUMN. 81 

Are gone, when life's chill autumn comes, 

And languor on the spirit lies ; 
When death's pale presence in the gloom 

Of midnight, stalks before our eyes. — 
Yet, though life's brief summer 's past ; 

There lives a hope that looks above, 
Far from this world of change, at last 

To find a changeless home of love. 



OSCEOLA 



Bear him gently to his bed, 
With sound of trump and martial tread, 
For he hath oft, and freely bled. 
In many a deadly fight, — 
When gathered in their might, 
Our legions from afar, 
In battle's cloudy car. 
Rolled on the tide of war ; — 



OSCEOLA. 83 

Then loudly rang the redmen's mingled shout, 
And high above them all. 
The chieftain's shrilly call, 
Urged on his warriors to the charge, the rout, 
'^ Strike ye ! boldly now my braves ! 
Let the morass be their graves. 
See they bend, they turn, they fly. 
Ours the field, and victory." 

Though no proud banners o'er them wave, 

To marshal on the fearless brave, 
No bugle's note. 
Or cannon's throat. 

Their wild and stormy music gave, 

To nerve the arm, and prompt the blow, — 
Once in the presence of the foe. 

The fire that in their bosoms burned, 

With unrelenting fury yearned 
For vengeance on the race. 

Whose cursed arts of fraud and gain, 



84 OSCEOLA. 

Had driven them from their fair domain 



Their homes, the resting-place 
Of mighty chiefs and gifted sires. 
Their altars and their counsel fires, 

And left no mark or trace, 
To point them where their fathers rest ; 
Whose souls at morn and even, 
Went trustingly to heaven, 
In dreams of fairer hunting grounds among 
the blest. 

Bear him to his lonely bed. 
With sound of trump and martial tread, 
Yet gently, for ye bear the dead, 
And broken spirit of the brave, 
To fill a strange unhonored grave ; 
But still unconquered, save by death. 
The warrior drew his latest breath, 
Encircled round by prison walls. 
Unlike the free and airy halls. 



OSCEOLA. 85 

Where oft his light and bounding feet, 
Sprang forth the daring foe to meet. 
Where stately oak, and toppling pine, 
Their lofty limbs together twine, 
A high, o'erarching canopy, 
Pit shelter for the tameless free. 

Though captive in a dungeon keep, 
His spirit sighed once more to stand, 
Surrounded by his faithful band. 

Where range the foe in column deep ; 

Once more in blood his hands to steep, 
Avenge the Indian's wrong, 
Then mingle with the throng, 
Borne upward to the spirit-land, 

From battle-field; where thickly spread, 

Repose the pale face and the red, 
The dying, and the dead. 



86 



LAMENT OF THE EXILE. 



I AM not old, yet oh ! believe me, 

Man's age is measured not by years ; 
A wasting worm within has brought me, 

Thus early, to life's goal in tears. 
The friends that fortune lent could leave me 

When darksome clouds were gathering 
near ; 
I am not old, yet oh ! believe me, 

My heart is cold, my hope is sere. 



Li\MENT OF THE EXILE. 87 

The home I knew in merry childhood, 

My own loved mountain-glens, so high. 
The rolling stream, and echoing wild-Avood, 

All fade before my dimmed eye. 
A mother's arms may ne'er receive me, 

Her exiled boy to memory dear ; 
I am not old, yet oh ! believe me. 

My heart is cold, my hope is sere. 

My father land, the land that bore me, 

I love her with a patriot's love ; 
Yet from her homes, a tyrant tore me, 

And doomed my weary feet to rove 
Here where sad memory doth grieve me. 

With dreams that melt like sorrow's tear ; 
I am not old, yet oh ! believe me, 

My heart is cold, my hope is sere. 



88 



BOAT SONG 



Now we are on the gladsome sea, 

The sea, the home of the fearless brave ; 
And merrily timing to notes of glee, 

Our oars we plash in its crystal wave. 
Then pull, boys, steadily pull away, 

And over the sparkling foam we fly, 
Now bathed in showers of silver spray. 

Or on the proud wave sported high : 
Oh ! there 's no place for the bold and free, 
Like the ever bright and bounding sea. 



BOATSONG. 89 

Now we glide o'er the waters clear, 

Swift as the eagle's tireless wing, 
Far out on the deep we '11 boldly steer. 

Where the ocean winds their wild notes 
sing. 
Then pull, boys, steadily pull away. 

Our good boat leaps at the spring of the 
oar, 
And gaily she breaks her billowy way, 

As fast behind her fades the shore ; 
Oh ! there 's no place for the bold and free. 
Like the ever bright and bounding sea. 



90 



SONG. 



When the light of day is fading. 

Forget not me ; 
When the nightly shades are speeding, 

Forget not me ; 
When the world is deeply sleeping, 
And the gentle streams are weeping, 
When soft dreams on thee are creeping, 

Forget not me ! 



SONG. 91 

When thy lovely form is kneelingj 

Forget not me ; 
When at eve thy prayer is stealing, 

Forget not me ; 
When thine eye is fondly beaming, 
And the burning tears are streaming, 
When thy soul of heaven is dreaming, 

Forget not me. 



93 



AN EVENING HYMN. 



Now Evening's sombre shades return, 
Its balmy hours are all my own ; 

And from the world my feet shall turn. 
Into some quiet glade alone. 

Far from the haunts of vulgar men, 
In paths by humbler spirits trod, 

I '11 seek the lonely wood or glen, 
Unseen, save by the eye of God. 



AN EVENING HYMN. 93 

I love the hours of fading light, 

For then my spirit spreads her wing, 

And bends unchecked, her heavenward flight, 
Above all low imagining. 

The flowers that deck the grassy way. 
Their tinted leaves in silence close. 

The birds' wild carol dies away, 
While man and nature seek repose. 

Oh ! nature, in thine hour of rest, 

What pleasing charms thy features wear, 

To calm the wild, tumultuous breast, 
And smooth the ruflied brow of care. 

The low, sweet winds that fill thine ear 
With the pure incense of their praise. 

Are to thy tender soul more dear. 

Than noblest songs that man can raise. 



94 



THE SPANISH EXILE'S SONG 



J. KNOW a land, a sunny land, 

Of fruitful vine and golden river ; 

And there a hall, whose portals stand 
Upon the banks of Guadalquiver. 

I know a bower, a shaded bower, 

Where bright-plumed birds are singing 
ever, 

Encircled round with vine and flower, 
Upon the banks of Guadalquiver. 



THE SPANISH EXILE's SONG. 95 

I know a spirit proud and high, 

Though bound in chains he may not 
sever ; 
It is my father doomed to sigh, 

Upon the banks of Guadalquiver. 

I know the tear bedims his eye 

For who shall now his land deliver. 

Her spreading fields and vineyards high, 
Upon the banks of Guadalquiver ? 

1 know that in his ancient halls 
The rout and revel soundeth ever. 

The spoiler holds his castle walls, 
Upon the banks of Guadalquiver. 

Oh ! who will hear the minstrel boy. 
The wanderer, sad and sighing ever, 

To greet again those haunts of joy, 
Upon the banks of Guadalquiver ? 



96 



THE BLIGHTED FLOWER 

A BALLAD. 



In a garden rude and lonely, 
Grew a flower sweet and wild, 

And on all who wandered thither, 
Pleasantly it looked and smiled. 

Old and young men of the village, 
And bright maidens, came to gaze 

Upon its heaven-tinted beauty. 
Both to envy and to praise. 



THE BLIGHTED FLOWER. 97 

Wondering how this little flower, 
Grew to be so bright and fair, 

In a garden wild and lonely, 
Without gentle nursing care. 

For they thought not that its Maker, 
Who hath many shining flowers. 

Shed his genial rays upon it, 
And his dew-distilling showers. 

So it chanced, one summer's morning. 

When its leaves were fully blown. 
That a youthful stranger saw it. 

Passing through the fields alone. 

Quick he caught its sparkling beauty, 
Oh ! sweet flower thou must be mine, 

Into richer soil transplanted, 

What new glory would be thine. 

9 



9S THE BLIGHTED FLOWER. 

To his heart he warmly pressed it, 
And his eyes they could but say, 

'' I will come again to-morrow," 
So he passed upon his way. 

Many morrows came without him, 
And this flower, frail as fair, 

Hopeless of his promised coming. 
Drooped and withered in despair. 

There it lay, cold and unlovely. 
Stretched upon the mossy bed. 

All its spirit-life departed. 
All its glowing beauty fled. 

Tearful maidens gathered round it. 
Who had marked its quick decay. 

In the freshness of its beauty 
Melting, peacefully away. 



THE E L I G TI T E 1) FLOWER. 99 

Old men's hearts are soft and kindly, 
And their tears could not be dried, 

When they thought how fair it blossomed, 
And how soon it drooped and died. 

Down in yonder winding valley 

Where the young grass thriftly grows, 

Sleeps that sweet, lamented flower. 
In its long and last repose. 



AN EPISTLE TO 



Was there ever maiden true ? 
Tell me you that often woo, 
Were you ever doomed to sigh 
Maiden false or maiden shy ; 
Hope's transparent, brimming cup, 
Broken, while you raised it up 
Trembling to your burning lip, 
Ere the nectar you could sip, 



AN EPISTLE TO . 101 

While the hot blood's feverish sway, 
Swept all sober sense away, 
Tasking love's distorted eyes 
With ten-thousand protean dyes ; 
Dreams of love's Elysian joys, 
Venus' shapes, and Cupid boys. 

Passion's flame luxurious feeding ; 
Dashed to earth the bowl of pleasure, 
Wasting all its liquid treasure ? 

Then what grief to joy succeeding, 
Black despair and thoughts malign ; 

If such fortune ere befell you, 

My dear fellow, let me tell you 
Such a hapless lot was mine. 

My first love was Sally Wing, 

Her true name less smooth and terse 
Cluite ill-suits my trotting verse ; 

She was all that poets sing ; 
Graceful as the summer air, 



102 AN EPISTLE TO 



Robed in morning's golden beams ; 

Born of spiritual dreams, 
Beautiful as spirits are. 

She had eyes of hazel hue 

Ever moistening with the dew 
Of a sympathetic soul, 
Stirring in its secret goal. 

Feelings generous and true. 
Like a crystal fount, her face. 
O'er which sunbeams sportive chase, 

Mirrored all that soul within. 

Free from shade of lurking sin, 
Glowing with a warmth intense. 
Full of strong intelligence. 

Whosoever looked in. 

Saw each love-provoking art. 
Centred in that maiden's heart. 

How that maid and I first met, 
I have striven to forget, 



AN EPISTLE TO . 103 

When, is now of less concern, 
Yet I owe it to my story, 
'T was mid spring's fresh budding glory, 

When the genial loves return, 
Thus I think Beranger sings, 
When the universe of things 
Welcomes back the balmy spring ; 
Then I met sweet Sally Wing : 

Not in some secure retreat, 
Forest groves' embowering shade, 
Not in wild or lonely glade ; 

Threading slow the devious street. 
Her bright face first caught my eye, 
Looking from a casement high. 

Thither turned my willing feet ; 
Reaching now within the pale, 

Glanced I at this humble line 

Rudely graven on a sign, 
'' Graham bread and pies for sale ; " 

There behind an oaken stand. 



104 AN EPISTLE TO 



Stood this blooming maiden fair, 

Ripened sheaves adorned her hair, 
Golden plenty filled her hand. 

'' Lovely one ! " I thus essayed, 
" Tell me what thou doest here ; " 
Then with pleasant voice and clear. 

Answered me that smiling maid. 

Stranger ! to thy bold request, 

I as boldly answer give ; 

Here do all that hope to live, 
Prostrate bow at my behest. 

Flowing from my open hand, 

Health and plenty fill the land. 
Lusty youth and crippled age. 
Fool, and philosophic sage, 

I with never closing eye. 

All their various wants espy. 
Feeding life's mysterious fires 

From my never-failing store ; 



AN EPISTLE TO . 105 

Where around my blessings pour, 
Man's insatiate desires, 
Drink of fulness and expire ; 

Gladdening in this peaceful reign. 

Swift before my joyous train, 
Shrivelled want and death retire. 

Pleasure fills the circling hours, 
Joy and hope, and meek content, 
Joined in laughing merriment, 

Deck their long neglected bowers ; — 
These to mortal eye and sense. 
Are the gifts that I dispense. 

Gentle Goddess ! I replied. 
Thou hast gifts almost divine, 
Yet there is one gift of thine, 

Dearer than all else beside, 

Make that precious treasure mine ; 

To my highest, noblest sense, 

Thy unchanging love dispense ; 



106 AN EPISTLE TO 



Let me press thee to my side, 
Sealing here the promised bliss, 
With a spiritual kiss. 

Hence ye ! I am guarded well, 
By a sure and potent spell ; 
This the maiden briefly said. 
Dashing at my feeble head, 
Hardest loaf of hardest bread. 
Gathering up my scattered feet, 
Soon I found the open street. 
Weeping floods of briny water. 
For the Baker's blooming daughter. 



107 



THE CRUSADER 



This day shall the christian warrior ride, 

Victorious o'er the battle-field, 
And the Paynim foe shall ne'er abide 

The brightness of his mighty shield. 

His fiery sword and conquering hand, 
Shall sweep o'er the bloody plain ; 

And the Paynim. arms, and the Paynim bands 
Shall be mingled with the slain. 



108 THE CRUSADER, 

On, warrior on, for the trumpet sounds 
With a soul inspiring blast. 

Not a living foe shall here be found, 
When the light of day is past. 



109 



THE TIMES. 



The times, the times, and yet once more 

the times ! 
In sad succession, like funereal chimes, 
From lip to lip, the ringing echo flies, 
Mounts on the breeze and mutters in the 

skies. 
Each boor takes up the sound, he knows not 

why, 
While at his back the rabble join the cry. 
From realm to realm this watchAVord of the 

world, 
O'er oceans broad, and continents is hurled. 

10 



no THETIMES. 

How poor is he who, nursed in freedom's air, 
Yet may not find one idle breath to spare. 
To curse himself in shooting at the age, 
Confessed a fool when mimicking the sage. 
Yet some there be whom fortune dooms to 

sigh, 
Speechless of words ; but written in the eye. 
Appear the lines of a severer wo ; 
There is an honest grief, no heartless show. 

Here, on a point between two oceans' vast. 
The boundless future, and the measured past. 
The eye surveys the unbroken waste before. 
Unconscious yet of all it hath in store ; 
While full of life the crowded scenes behind. 
In long procession thronging to the mind. 
Like ghostly spectres of an army slain, 
Remembered pleasure and remembered pain. 
The days of love and hope, the bitter years. 
When manhood saw its hopes dissolved in 
tears, 



THETIBIES. Ill 

All human actions open or concealed, 
Both now alike in clearest light revealed, 
Before a dread tribunal full arrayed. 
Their secrets known, their good or ill dis- 
played, — 
Demand the judgment of the impartial pen. 
That mighty judge and arbiter of men. 

Before us lies the map of human things, 
The currents of the times, their secret springs, 
Whence into light and being they emerge, 
To run their courses to earth's farthest verge. 
Here, in a region bounded by the North, 
Where freedom's eagle, first exulting, forth 
Spread on the breeze his broad triumphant 

wings. 
The boast of freemen and the dread of 

kings, — 
Ruled by the dictates of a sordid sense, 
Despising manhood'^ proud intelligence. 



1 12 T H E T I M E S . 

Man wraps himself in narrowness of soul, 
Forgetting all but self, brooks no control ; 
And with a pomp that would become a 

throne. 
Struts through the world as if he were alone. 

Weak-minded mortal ! though thy gods be 

gold, 
And thou a worshipper to Mammon sold. 
The fairer smiles of Deity shall bless. 
What thou contemnest, and esteem'st the 

less. 
Reads not aright, or else perversely blind. 
Is he who thus illiberal to his kind, 
No fellow-feeling cherisheth for him. 
Whose skies are darkly, and whose lamp 

is dim. 
Nor less the man who trenched in titled 

names. 
Assumes the monkey, and the human shames ; 



THE TIMES. 113 

Hides what of sense a providence e'er gave, 
And uses fortune but as fortune's slave : 
Scarce dreaming that no wealth or names 

combined. 
Can match the treasure of a noble mind. 



Here too in pride of purse the men of trade, 
By nature fond of bustle and parade. 
Their legered dues, ill-gotten sums display, 
To show the world gold's current sets that 

way, 
Scorning the profits of an humbler toil, 
The healthful tillage of a grateful soil, 
They brave life's sea unlettered and un- 
learned. 
Converting thus the means so nobly earned, 
To dangerous uses for a larger gain, 
When reason chides them though no laws 
restrain ; — 

10* 



1 14 T II E T I Bl E S . 

Their wealth devoted to unyielding ends, 
Themselves require the kindly prop of 

friends ; 
Thence follow debts and customary loans, 
A ruined credit, and a people's groans. 
The man who thus o'ersteps his means and 

place, 
Will meet misfortune, and deserve disgrace. 



Mark now the Exchange, the backbone of 

the town, 
Where the still tide of trade flows up and 

down, 
By fits and starts beyond precedent bounds, — 
Oft swells too high, oft bares the shallow 

grounds. 
There Mammon's temples in proud splendor 

rise. 
Towering to heaven they dazzle and surprise, 



THE TIMES. 115 

And lead our thoughts to those whose bread 

they waste, 
In lofty capitals, and costly taste ; 
They whose hard fingers move the delicate 

springs, 
Of fortune's wheel, and monetary things, 
The slaves of gods whom all mankind adore, 
Still fill their coffers, and still cry for more. 
While those whose honest wants deserve 

supply, 
Driven from their hopes, to hungry leeches 

fly, 

Whose fangs once fastened, suck them till 
they die. 



And thou, Religion ! friend of man assigned, 
Lightener of griefs, controller of the mind, 
How varied are thy charities, how great 
The influence thou sway'st o'er man's estate. 



116 THETOIES. 

Him dost thou cherish with sincerest love. 
Him dost thou feed with blessings from above, 
Where'er ascends the incense of a prayer, 
Thine answering dews distill, for thou art 

there ; 
A faithful few, thy tried and chosen band. 
The world forsake, and all its arts withstand ; 
On thy strong arm their faith and hopes 

depend. 
With thee they travel to their journey's end. 
Come then, Celestial Maid, in flame and fire, 
A wayward world demands thy vengeful ire ; 
Thy feigned worshippers with hearts of steel. 
Bow but to nature, for they cannot feel 
Those fervid kindlings of a soul within, 
Patient in hope, repentant of its sin ; 
With lengthened faces and upturned eyes, 
Too many wear thee for a deep disguise ; 
Hide thy pure garments, beautiful and bright, 
Beneath the mantle of perpetual night. 



THETIMES. 117 

Once more the times ! methinks I hear the 

cry, 
Sullenly somiding through the troubled sky ; 
As in a dream when myriad tongues unite, 
To swell the chorus and disturb the night ; 
All have their griefs, and each their mighty 

cause, 
Some rail at rulers, and some at the laws. 
With omens dark each laboring breath is full. 
And all declare the times perversely dull ; 
Though e'er so dul], let reason mount the 

stage, - 
Nor longer curse the errors of the age ; 
Her voice attuned to harmony and peace. 
Shall bid all cares and dark forebodings cease ; 
Urge on thyself a calm and sweet content, 
That treats all sorrows but as angels sent, 
Revive the drooping freshness of the mind, 
Point thee to heaven and bid thee be resigned. 



118 



SONG 



Mary, arise, 

The eastern skies 
Are reddening with the morn ; 

And every bird's 

Sweet song is heard, 
Amid the waving corn. 



SONG. 119 

Through groves and woods, 

Where silence broods, 
In hermit shades forlorn ,• 

Blithe streams rejoice 

With gladsome voice. 
That a new day is born. 

The dewy grass, 

Like molten glass, 
Sways in the freshening breeze ; 

And all around 

There breathes a sound, 
A murmuring sound of bees. 

To greet the day, 

On every spray 
Bright flowers their leaves unclose ; 

O'er gardens fair, 

The scented air, 
In rosy currents flows. 



120 



SONG. 



Mary, arise, 

Ere morning flies, 
Come to the woods and fields ; 

No wealth, or art. 

Can e'er impart. 
The joy that nature yields. 



121 



THE DYING GIRL. 



Within a darkly chamber that looked out 
upon the west, 

O'er waving woods and meadows green in 
summer's glory drest, 

Where southern breezes laden with the per- 
fume of the flowers, 

O'er all the blooming land distilled their balm 
in cooling showers, 

Where sang the happy linnet and the robin 
on the tree. 

With the tiny horn of beetle and the drowsy 

hum of bee, 
11 



122 THE DYING GIKL. 

As evening's shadowy veil came down upon 

the face of day. 
All silent on the bed of death a pallid maiden 

lay. 
Her face was spirit-beautiful, but icy cold and 

wan, 
And told me by its marble look, her life was 

near its span ; 
Her pulse was slow, she scarcely breathed, a 

shade came o'er her eye, 
She knew she could not live, and yet she 

could not bear to die. 
Beside the couch her father knelt in watch- 
fulness and prayer, 
His snowy ringlets streaming down upon her 

forehead fair ; 
And oft he wept and weeping said, his eyes 

were growing dim, 
And prayed that God would spare his child 

and point a shaft for him. 



THE DYING GIRL. 123 

Above her face the mother leaned, she could 

not be too near, — 
And low, to catch her wasting breath, she 

bent her aged ear ; 
Her trusting spirit shining through an aspect 

sweet and mild, 
While in her hand she warmly pressed the 

cold hand of her child. 
Oh ! Holy Mother blest, of Jesus, thou whose 

love we claim, 
Bestow a benison on all who bear a mother's 

name. 
A shade came o'er the maiden's face, her eyes 

divinely shone. 
And smiling on those kneeling forms, she 

spoke in feeble tone, 
^'Dear mother rise, I pray thee now, push 

back the window blind, 
Let in the kindly beams of day, let in the 

summer wind. 



124 THE DYING GIRL. 

I long once more to smell the flowers, and 

hear the songs of birds, 
For all the old familiar sights, the old familiar 

words. 
Oh ! mother, do not look so sad, oh ! father, 

do not weep, 
I feel the blood through all my veins in freer 

currents creep ; 
I feel a glow upon my cheek, a fire within 

my eye. 
Oh ! mother, do not look so sad, I cannot, 

cannot die." 
Her voice was still ; and then a calm, a holy 

calm, was there. 
Unbroken, save at intervals, when on the 

listless air, 
An insect's wing with humming sound sailed 

through the chamber old ; 
The father looked upon his child, and she 

was dead and cold. 

Q 32 89 '-^i 



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